Battles Won and Lost
by you-didnt-thank-any1
Summary: C.C. remembers the good and the bad, times when she was afraid and strong and loved and heartbroken. An AU reinterpretation of the character C.C. Babcock.


Author's Note: I am cisgender. If my depiction of a trangender character is problematic please feel free to send me a message or review.

The doctor announces that the couple has a baby boy, and four days later Stuart and B.B. Babcock bring their second child home from the hospital. An ecstatic figure who, until recently, had been the only Babcock child, waits at the window of their lavish home and bursts out the front door as the car makes its way up the driveway. The nanny is unable to quell the boy's excitement that had been building up since the afternoon his parents sat him down and told him he would become an older brother.

The chauffeur opens the passenger door for his employers and Stuart steps out, taking the boy in his arms to hug him before setting him back down. After getting out of the car herself, B.B. kneels down and shows her eldest the infant wrapped in a soft blue blanket, and tells Noel to say hello to his new little brother: Oliver Babcock.

C.C. remembers none of this, of course. One can hardly expect a newborn to recall the first few years of life with such detail, let alone the first few days. She does remembers roughhousing with Noel and his friends, hunting alongside Mummy, scoffing at D.D.'s dolls and tea parties, bursting with pride when Daddy took her and her brother to the office while D.D. was made to stay at home, and feeling a little sick inside every time the servants addressed her as "Master Oliver".

She remembers listening to Grandmama's stories about the strong women she descended from: fierce, formidable, feared. She heard about everyone from Elena Evelyn Babcock, civil rights pioneer; to her own mother Beatrice Beverly Babcock, who traveled the world and packed her life full of adventure before marrying.

She remembers telling Grandmama that she wanted to be a Babcock woman when she grew up. And she remembers Clarissa Carol Babcock with a sad smile on her face, perahps looking into young blue eyes and seeing the troubled future that lay ahead, and speaking one simple sentence to her:

"Of course you can become one of us, dear."

It is this memory in particular that, when she renames herself at age 15, compels her to choose the name C.C.

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C.C. doesn't remember what drew her to apply for a job with Maxwell Sheffield, Broadway producer. She does remember being absolutely disgusted with herself the morning of her interview.

She remembers wishing she'd taken her therapist and doctor's warnings about weight gain during hormone replacement therapy more seriously. She remembers wondering why in the world she thought dark hair was a good look for her. She remembers hiding her breasts, the ones she'd fallen in love with since her top surgery at age 20, under a sweater, just in case this Mr. Sheffield turned out to be a prude. She remembers taking extra care to tuck, then examining herself from every possible angle in a floor-length mirror to check for a tell-tale bulge.

She remembers checking her watch and swearing when noticing the time, then dashing out of her penthouse apartment to grab a taxi.

She remembers stepping into that office for the first time, before the green love seat and the table on the terrace and the framed picture of five smiling Sheffields on the desk. She remembers looking over her potential new employer and not minding the view at all: a full head of dark hair, a trim figure, and a serious look in his eyes as he went over some paperwork at his desk.

"Maxwell Sheffield?" she remembers asking without waiting for an invitation to introduce herself. She remembers being painfully aware of how much lower her voice is compared to the average woman, but continues on. "C.C. Babcock. I'm here for my interview."

She remembers the Englishman looking up from his work, surprised at the direct introduction, but he recovered with the dignity of a proper gentleman. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Babcock," he had said, his accent completing the picture as he gestured for her to sit across from him at the desk. "Now, tell me, what can you offer as secretary to Sheffield Productions?"

C.C., being the Babcock woman that she was, chose to stand. She wasn't sure what sort of impression she made on Maxwell Sheffield, standing at her full height while he sat down and looked up at his interviewee.

But she remembers getting the phone call a week later telling her that she had a job.

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C.C. doesn't remember the first time Maxwell's butler said something nasty to her

She does remember the first time she felt afraid of him.

She remembers gazing at the middle of the gorgeous ballroom, where the newly wed Mr. and Mrs. Sheffield held each other and danced to the song they had picked out together weeks before. She remembers feeling the ugliest she'd ever felt in a dress while standing next to Sara and her long, flowing white gown.

She remembers standing off to the side of the dance floor. The rules of being a maid of honor dictated that she be happy for the woman in Maxwell Sheffield's arms, but C.C. was not in the mood. She remembers not having a date. She remembers the only person she considered a friend in the room dancing with the man of her dreams. She remembers itching for a cigarette, the voice of her doctor ringing in her head telling her that he would not be able to prescribe more hormones unless she kept her blood pressure down

"Jealous?" a voice drawled into her ear. She jumped, holding her hand to her chest and turning to see the nosiest domestic she's ever known standing behind her. His hands were folded behind his back, looking respectful and docile to the casual observer while his eyes sparked with mischief.

"_No_," C.C. said, catching her breath. As he tilted his head skeptically, she looked away from him as the need to vent crawled up her throat. Before she knew it, she was talking to him, a servant in a room full of socialites, and not particularly caring. "And so what if I am? I've known him longer than she has, I come from higher society than her. Why in the world would Maxwell picker her over me?"

"Well, you can't really blame him," the butler replied matter-of-factly, his voice sounding falsely sympathetic. He turned to her and, as she turned back around and made eye contact, a smirk crawled across his face. "After all, he likes women."

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C.C. doesn't remember the exact date she came out to Sara.

She does remember laughing with the smaller blonde over drinks at their favorite bars, mocking the boys in their college classes that thought they were studs, and trading wicked stories about their dates. She remembers them shopping together, doing each other's nails, and spending their nights in the Big Apple exploring the city as two young women with plenty of money to blow.

She remembers Sara rubbing her shoulders while her stomach churned in the waiting room before her first appointment with the endocrinologist. She remembers Sara being the only one other than her therapist she could talk to about wanting to have an orchiectomy, because D.D. wasn't speaking to her yet and, as supportive and wonderful as he could be, the last thing Noel wanted to talk about was castration. She remembers a date she'd brought back to the apartment shoving her off his lap when he reached between her legs, spitting hateful names at her and threatening to do things to her that made the blood drain from her face, and Sara storming in from the adjoining room like a tornado of petite blonde fury and punching the bastard in the face.

She remembers torturing herself on countless nights after the wedding, wondering if the butler knew. And if he did know, how he could have found out. If he had told Mr. Sheffield. If he would let it slip to investors and potential stars in their productions. If he didn't know and thought his remarks were no different from insulting her looks or her weight. If he would react violently when he really did find out, assuming his insult at the wedding had meant nothing to him.

She remembers entertaining the thought that maybe Sara had blabbed despite the promise she'd made years ago not to say a word about the gender C.C. had been assigned at birth. She remembers not being sure what would be better: if Mr. Sheffield's lackey had just insulted her womanhood at random and might become physically aggressive if he ever found out the truth, or if Mrs. Sheffield had betrayed her.

She remembers thinking that perhaps that's why Maxwell had passed her over and gone straight to his current wife; that maybe she had let the secret slip to the man over a cup of coffee in order to get the secretary out of the picture forever. The theory became more and more plausible to the heartbroken woman as the children were born, Maxwell drifted farther and farther from his work, and the married couple seemed to grow happier by the day.

She remembers waiting five tense, angry years after the wedding and of the servant tossing snide remarks at her before accusing Mrs. Sheffield of spilling the beans. She remembers scoffing at the hurt and insuluted look on the traitor's face when she confronted her. She remembers the first Sheffield child being away at school and Maxwell and his butler out on business, so she could scream at her all she wanted. She remembers the dutiful wife, pregnant with her second child, screaming right back at her with wet streaks of tears on her face and denying everything, demanding to know how she could dare to accuse her of something so cruel. She remembers unleashing all her famous vitrol and anger onto her best friend for the first time in all the years that they'd known each other. She remembers not getting Sara to confess, while a nagging voice in the back of her mind tells her that this kind, thoughful woman would never betray her like that, that Niles was just a disgusting lowlife that thought insulting someone's femininity was the epitome of wit. She remembers telling that voice that it didn't matter anymore, that too much trust and respect had been destroyed with this one argument and the last five years of suspicion.

She remembers making the decision that same night to end their friendship.

She remembers years later getting the phone call that told her she would never get the chance to apologize.

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C.C. doesn't remember the first time someone insulted her.

She does remember discovering that she could insult herself.

Her therapist wants her to get down to the reason why she feels the need to do this. Her therapist wants her to do a lot of things that she doesn't feel ready for: confront Niles about why he insults her the way he does, think about why Maxwell refuses to make her his official partner, remove herself from the work environment that makes her feel unsafe.

Why she laughed in Niles's arms the last time he misgendered her ("Funny, I was going to say the same about you"), why she asked him to take her to that awards ceremony in the first place.

As much as she hates to get behind on work, the jury duty at first seemed like a blessing: an excuse to stay away from the office and put those questions on the back burner for a few days.

But of course, just because she escapes one aspect of her life doesn't mean she can escape who she is.

She has no interest in the oaf at all. She's sure that she's insulted him to his face many times before during the case, but still he wants her. Every chance he gets he throws out a cheap pick-up line, finds excuses to put as little space between them as possible, to "accidentally" brush his hands against her body. When he asks her "You like a sensitive guy?" and leers at her, poking his fat arm into her personal space and leaning in to hear her answer, she snaps.

"Yes," she deadpans, lowering her voice, a task which has actually become difficult after the years of speech therapy. "I used to be one."

As expected, the man scoots his chair back to put as much distance between them as possible. He wipes his hands on his vest, not bothering to hide the look of disgust on his face.

It feels so little like a victory and much more like a punch in the gut.

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C.C. walks into the living room of the Sheffield mansion from the study, weaving through the Sheffield children and Yetta while looking over contracts. Maxwell is off in London and Nanny Fine as followed him, so naturally she'll be distracting him from getting Celine to consider coming to New York. She considers not for the first time that day to just call it a day and go home.

Then Niles walks in, looking proud as a peacock, the top of his head as black as a newly tarred road. She stifles her grin, wanting to get at least one good zinger in before she bursts into peals of laughter.

"What?" he asks her defensively as he notices her mouth twitching. She forces her mirth down for a moment or two more.

"Smart. Doing it gradually so no one would notice."

He gives her a moment to enjoy her sarcastic quip, to feel like she's one-upped him, before he replies.

"Same way you became a woman."


End file.
